Margi Desmond The Burden
The antique grandfather clock ticked with each movement of the second hand as it jerked around the aged dial, the only sound in the room save for the occasional moan emitted from Lucille’s husband. Suffering from a constant chill, Joseph insisted the windows stay closed. The room, previously freshened by cool mountain air flowing from open windows, turned stuffy. He complained the sunlight shined too bright. The curtains remained drawn. The former cheerful, orderly room bustling with happy grandchildren was cluttered with a wheelchair, oxygen tanks, a hulking hospital bed, and numerous medication bottles on the bedside table. Joseph’s eyes fluttered open. Lucille held his hand in both of hers. “Are you hungry, sweetheart? I made soup. I’ll heat some—” He shook his head. “No. Thanks,” Joseph whispered and closed his eyes. The morphine prescribed by the Hospice physician helped to ease Joseph’s pain, but also caused him to sleep throughout the day. Lucille sat by his bed, determined he not be alone. She gazed at their wrinkled, age-spotted hands, each wearing a wedding ring representing their marriage spanning many years. She looked at the once virile man, now broken. “I love you, sweetheart. My love…” A tear traveled down her cheek as she closed her eyes and prayed. Joseph regained consciousness. He looked at his wife and whispered, “Lucille.” She felt his hand go limp, the life leave his body. Lucille Evans was a widow.